


Not Your Son

by Fanferal



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, Implied Roy/Jason, Self-Hatred, Self-Indulgent, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 06:02:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20148838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fanferal/pseuds/Fanferal
Summary: “Pretender.”Tim’s mere existence was a searing pain, an open stovetop begging to be touched by a curious child. His presence was enough to open up old wounds, to press his fingers into Jason’s barely healed bruises from a certain psychopath’s crowbar.++ OLD ++





	Not Your Son

**Author's Note:**

> As I move forward into newer fandoms, I'm trying to get a hold of new characters and how to write for them. Jason has always been my favorite robin/character overall in the Batfamily, I've been dying to write for him for ages. This is sort of a palette-cleanser type of piece, I'm trying to work my muscles back into writing, so don't expect much from this.
> 
> edit as of 8/2020: if u read this i'll cry its so old i hate it lmao

“Replacement.” 

“Pretender.” 

“Imposter.”

The sting of split knuckles after he and Tim had gotten into a fight. He hurt him, again, and he’d enjoyed it. It was an acquired taste, seeing others in pain. It wasn’t something Jason wanted to admit, it was shameful. Ducra and the All-Caste would be disappointed in him, but he felt a grotesque sense of satisfaction every time he made the replacement’s skin crawl.

Tim’s mere existence was a searing pain, an open stovetop begging to be touched by a curious child. His presence was enough to open up old wounds, to press his fingers into Jason’s barely healed bruises from a certain psychopath’s crowbar.

He had just wanted to _see_, he had wondered what had happened while he was away. Did Bruce kill the Joker? No. Did Alfred clean out his old room? No. Did he come home to an unnamed boy, sitting in the living room about to head out on patrol in _his_ uniform, with _his_ codename, about to sit next to Bruce where _he_ used to sit. He called himself Robin, like he was worthy of such a moniker. Who was this kid, anyways?

Rage was a powerful motivator, and Jason’s parents hadn’t been the greatest people in the world. He’d broken in, knocked out the new Robin with a crack of his knuckles against his skull, through gnashed teeth he’d called him a pretender. He’d taken him out to the graveyard to pontificate to Bruce, to scream at him for letting him die. 

Another lesson in futility.

_I’m sorry, Ducra._ He’d wanted to say, after the fact. _I guess I forgot about all of that humility you tried to teach me._

He didn’t try something like that again. Hatred coiled in his belly like a den of snakes, in the moment it had felt right, it had felt just- he had to be vindicated. How could Bruce sleep knowing not only that his murderer was still alive- but that he had replaced him. His partner. His…

The word made him feel sick. He couldn’t get them out, not even in his head.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d washed vomit down the sink, working with and against Black Mask had brought up revulsion more than once.

It was something Roy always tried to talk to him about, his best friend could sense when he was vulnerable. He’d try and gently pry apart the chinks in his armor, vying for whatever soft little bit of human that might still be left inside of his shell. They were quiet whispers. Little reassurances.

_I think Bruce still loves you._ He’d say, their bodies were close. They had to be, Roy always kept his voice down, it was easy to startle him when bringing up a subject as touch-and-go as Bruce and family. _You’re his son._

The s-word always sent him reeling.

It sent him into blind rages, like when he took Venom, where all he wanted was to feel fragile bone splinter beneath his fists. It sent his teeth gnashing, he could feel his teeth crack against each other when he clenched his jaw, the heave and crumple of a car roof after he’d fallen on it, rather than his bones shattering after he’d fallen forty feet. He’d changed. The Lazarus pit had changed him.

He wasn’t Bruce’s son anymore.


End file.
